Since I know in the past some younger people have read my blog, I feel the parental side of me needing to put a disclaimer on this post by letting you know it has profanity in it. It’s also kind of funny, or at least I think so. It’s not pointless profanity. In fact, the profanity is the point, the locus of intrigue. While it doesn’t bother me, I realize it could bother you, and it if it does, I’m not offended in the least if you decide not to read. Also, the title of this post needs heavy emphasis placed on the numerical value. I do not claim to have women completely figured out; rather, I have picked up one new chunk of knowledge, and it has tickled me with its ironic nature. I felt the need to share.
The thing I learned has to do with everything surrounding the phrase, “She’s such a bitch!” When a woman utters this phrase, the most interesting series of events begins to take place. Allow me to share, but with background first.
So as to not give specifics about anything and, thus, indict any people with these observations, I will not say when or where I made this observation. I will simply say that, for a season in my life, I was around younger women a lot. I realize the vague structure of that sentence comes suspiciously close to making me out to be a pedophile, so let me go ahead and assure you that I am neither on a sex offender watch list, nor have I done anything to merit placement on such a roster. Quite simply, life’s circumstances put me around girls more than guys, and before long these ladies had accepted me enough to where they would speak freely and not worry about my being present.
Now, when anything happens with some sort of frequency, you begin to pick up on it. Such was the case with, “She’s such a bitch!” The first couple of times a girl would say this, I noticed a sudden flurry of electricity would follow. Something tactile was humming throughout the room—so taut and tense you could seemingly pluck it to bring forth a discordant note to match the rising melodic pulsations around you. This was new to me. I couldn’t quite figure out what was going on.
About the third time it happened, I realized what it was. Whichever girl would proclaim, “Ugh, she’s such a bitch!” would suddenly have all the other girls in the room flocking to her as if they were newborns running to their mother to nurse, and what they hoped to suckle on was a juicy piece of gossip. The lamenter never failed to oblige.
Yes, gossip. Nine times out of ten, that was what followed the frustrated outburst. I quickly noticed the following: “She’s such a bitch!” was a signifier to all nearby persons that more information was to follow. It was a clearing of the throat before a lengthy oration. Never was it enough to say, “She’s such a bitch!” and leave it at that because such an intro would leave so much more to be desired, dissected, explicated, woven into description.
Guys will not do this. A guy will stand there with his buds and say, “That guy’s such an asshole,” and that will be all. He, in his taciturn profundity, has just said everything that needs to be said. His statement, dripping in universalism, has robbed the air of words, and his comrades, therefore, will have to resort to responding inarticulately with grunts, nods, shrugs, and scratchings of their man parts so as not to speak and infringe upon the sacred air surrounding the potent, deep thoughts their fellow man friend has just shared. He has put forth an insular statement. It is beginning and end, alpha and omega, and there is nothing more in the middle to explain. He is Pontius Pilate, having written what he has written. No disputes needed. But women cannot do this. “She’s such a bitch!” is only the start. It’s just getting good.
Now, I don’t look down on gossip in the sense that I believe myself above it. I mean, if you want to get technical, you could even make an argument that this entire post is basically gossip with nothing more than an airbrushed label of “informative” placed over it. Could be. But the irony of this entire thing is so interesting that I just had to share it.
The women gather around the center female (we’ll call her Carol) so she can explain why exactly this girl she’s frustrated with (we’ll call her Rhonda) merits the label “bitch.” Usually it’s because Rhonda has gossiped about Carol. So Carol whines, looking for retribution. How does Carol exact this revenge? She does so by . . . DOING THE VERY SAME THING THAT MAKES RHONDA A BITCH. Carol gossips about Rhonda—that bitch!—who gossiped about her. In other words, Carol becomes what she hates. The very thing that initially upset Carol and made her mad is gossip, and so she now goes and gossips herself. Therefore, Carol, who right now is on her own angry soapbox about Rhonda, should realize—that is, if Carol would stop for a moment and take a fly on the wall perspective of herself—that if gossip is the thing that makes her so angry and hate Rhonda, Carol should also be hating . . . herself.
But Carol won’t stop and realize this, even though she would be wise to. Why should she stop and consider the ramifications? Because, in the event her words and label of “bitchiness” work their way through the grapevine back to Rhonda (whom Carol is now gossiping about), then Carol will inevitably become the bitch herself. Life is a (bi)cycle built for two.
Here is what I discovered: If you want to put yourself on the fast track to bitchdom, there is no quicker way than to gossip about your friends (like Rhonda did) and do so in such a way to where they will notice it and then talk about you behind your back (like Carol is now doing). Except, now Carol unfortunately becomes just like Rhonda. But I began to receive the impression that Carol really doesn’t mind inheriting this label that much because there’s almost a snide level of pride that comes with being known as the bitch—a sort of, “Yeah, that’s right. I did that. I went there. Now what, chica?”
There is obviously hypocrisy in all of this, and if it weren’t so dang funny and unimportant, it might actually cause us to shake our heads in dismay. But when you see Carol simply perpetuating the very thing she disdains the most, you can’t help but chuckle at the pitiful nature of it all. Carol just looks plain silly.
Not that we don’t all do this. We all lash out against what we hate, and what we hate the most usually ends up being our own shortcomings; however, rather than attack the faults we possess, we just target the ones rising to the surface in other people.
The moral of this story? Well, there’s not really much of one, other than to say, “Don’t do that.” You’ll attack someone and just end up looking stupid. And that is dumb.